To Be King
by Robin Mask
Summary: Scar knew so little about the duty that he owed to others, that he owed to himself. Mufasa would teach him. He would build Scar up and teach him about the meaning of 'worth', even if Scar refused to believe it, because that's what brothers did . . . they loved unconditionally. They loved. One-Shot.


**A/N: **This is my last "Lion King" story. It can be read alone, but it can also follow on from 'Shadowland' and 'Injustice Deliciously Squared'.

This dedicated to _Vicky Voltaire_.

**To Be King**

Obligation.

It was one word, but it was one word that held much meaning. Mufasa had always felt the chains of society and family pulling upon him since the day he was born, and it had not been easy to fight the pull of his father's expectations whilst his own desires pulled him in other directions. He was obliged to his family for their support and unconditional love, obliged to the company for the responsibility he held over it, but what obligations did he hold to himself?

People thought that being company director was a license to fun: something that came with great power and control, something that came with luxuries like a fast car, easy women, and money to burn. The image of the eighties director in his Armani suit and with the glory of his employees had faded somewhat in the recession, but even though he had his detractors who saw him as 'taking' when he should be 'giving', as being on the same scale as the 'slime' who 'stole from the state' simply by accepting benefits – albeit on the other end of said scale – he still strove to do well by his employees.

He would never turn his back on his company. He would sacrifice his own pay cheque to make sure that they still were able to receive theirs. He would even do it all with a brave smile, and why -? It was his obligation and duty. He would not be here were it not for his workers and so he would be a hypocritical leech to turn his back on them now. They were all connected in this. That was what being a director meant.

Scar would never understand that.

It was a shame; they were brothers and kin, and so they shared an unbreakable bond that no one could steal or shake, the foundations so strong that they would uphold the brotherly bond eternally. That was the ideal. He sometimes felt like the foundations were an illusion, that the seemingly shaky relationship was even more dangerous than it felt, and that any day now he would find it reduced to rubble, wondering where it had all gone. They were just so different . . ._ too _different.

It could be summed up as thus: ask the two brothers to describe in one word, just one, the definition of a high-ranking job such as 'company director' or 'vice-president', and the answers would speak for themselves. _Responsibility_. _Power_.

Mufasa saw a duty to give and improve for the sake of those beneath him. Scar saw perks that were owed to him and that he deserved, people beneath him to be moved like pawns in a game of chess. Mufasa liked to say that neither belief was 'wrong', but – deep inside – he knew that he was the man for the job. Scar had the lion's share of 'brains', whereas Mufasa had 'brute strength', but sometimes sheer intelligence wasn't enough when the sheer work ethic, basic human psychology, and practical managerial skills were all lacking. He wished Scar would understand that.

"Scar," Mufasa said, breaking his train of thought. The sarcasm in his words to come was subtle, but not so subtle as to be lost upon the brother to whom he addressed. "You must learn not to play with your food."

His voice was deep and strong. He had always been complimented on his voice, especially by Sarabi, because it had a deep and rolling timbre that could stop even the loudest of arguments in its tracks with a mere word. The tone he used professionally was unmoving, solid as stone, and sometimes a little clinical, which many – like Zazu – commended him for. It was this voice that he used now.

"Put him down, Scar."

Scar growled rather audibly, although the tone itself was somewhere between a moan of frustration and a smothered scream. He wasn't like Mufasa in this respect either, because Mufasa would be the first to admit he would rather let out a full-blown roar when angry than a half-felt growl, and perhaps that had been inbuilt into him since childhood. The idea of the business world as a jungle, each businessman a predator seeking to sink its teeth into the flesh of young upstarts, and if Mufasa wasn't strong – wasn't quick to show his power – he would potentially lose what mattered most. He had to be strong to protect those he loved. He had to protect them all.

His brother's hand on Zazu's neck loosened at once and the small British man dropped to the ground spluttering and choking. Scar merely rolled his eyes and slinked his way across the office to sit casually in a leather chair, legs crossed and outstretched as he opened a book to read its contents. He didn't seem to care that he had just violently assaulted Zazu; in fact he even seemed indifferent to being caught. Mufasa would have to have serious words with him.

"I am sincerely very sorry, Zazu," Mufasa said gently. He helped the short man to his feet and brushed off his shirt for him. "If you would kindly look past this behaviour I will see to it you are compensated later."

"No need, sir. I know what it's like. There's one in _every _family."

Mufasa held back a smile as he saw the dark look Zazu sent Scar. It caused Scar to smile rather menacingly in return, lowering his head just slightly enough that his long black hair fell forward to shadow his face and hid his green eyes, and with a dangerous smile he opened his mouth wide and made a biting motion, clicking his teeth together. He looked rather insane, dangerously brutal, and Zazu visibly flinched and turned away with a slight pout. The poor man, Mufasa thought with a sad smile, just had his feathers ruffled and was now being mocked for it. Scar had to learn not to treat people this way.

"If I may," Zazu said with a polite bow, "I have to get back to the morning reports."

"Of course, please, be my guest."

Zazu nodded and quickly made his way out of the office. The man was rather short and stout, so that when he walked he seemed to move side-to-side in a slightly less that dignified manner, and yet he carried himself with a grace and charm that made it impossible for even the coldest of men to mock him. He walked with his chin high, his beak-like nose raised so that he often seemed to be looking down on those around him, and yet this was not arrogance, – no – it was pride.

This was what Mufasa lived for. He lived to see the inner strength of his employees, the way they would proudly and confidently state their company name as if it were a badge of honour, and the way that – despite their flaws – they worked towards perfection, because they felt that the company was a company worth working for, worth _upholding_ the standards of perfection for. Zazu carried himself well, and he didn't let little mishaps like these set him back, instead he used the experience to push himself forward, to better himself. His mother had once acted as personal assistant to the previous director, and when she retired Zazu had taken over from her, and it was partially for her sake that he strove to achieve the best. He wanted to live up to her reputation. He wanted to also make the company proud.

It was simply frustrating that Scar did not have that same pride in his work. He seemed to slink around and treat his position as a birthright, something that was owed to him by Mufasa and could not be taken away. He was also known for socialising with less desirable elements. He had once taken great pains to set Mufasa up in a gang fight, to smear his name with mud, but that had backfired and Mufasa had hoped his brother had learned his lesson. He hadn't. He shirked off fundraisers, corporate events, and even his own nephew's christening. He just didn't learn.

Mufasa waited for the door to click closed before he strode across the room to his little brother's desk. The black-haired man was now filing his nails with complete disinterest in his surroundings, his spectacular green eyes filled with a dull and empty emotion that detracted from their beauty. He could not even bring himself to look at Mufasa. It was highly disrespectful.

"Scar, I wish to talk to you about your treatment of our employees."

"Ah, '_our' _employees?" Scar bore his teeth in a snarl and threw his nail file against the table with a rather violent gesture. "You finally decide to _mingle _with us commoners and yet your royal highness still tries to pretend as if we are _equal_? Don't try to pretend you are one of us, Mufasa. You will _never _be _my _equal."

"You are mistaken," Mufasa said, his patience wearing thin. "We may be very different, with one's strength being another's weakness, but difference does not equal inequality. If we worked together – _combined _our strengths – this company would be stronger than our ancestors could ever have imagined. Our father, our father's father, they were all powerful men, stars in their own right, and I think that they would want us to work together, as brothers and as colleagues."

"Let's not beat around the bush, _brother dearest_. You want something."

Scar leaned back in his chair and threw back his head. It was such a casual and relaxed pose that it was far from appropriate for the office, and Mufasa had a strong feeling that he only adopted such a pose to say aloud – in a way he could never verbally – that he would not be constrained by _Mufasa_ in the slightest. If he wished to lay back, hands clasped lazily on his stomach as he licked his teeth, then he would, and _Mufasa _could not stop him. It was frustrating, but it at least it was not a direct challenge of Mufasa's authority . . . no, Scar always stopped just short of _that_.

There would no doubt come a day when Mufasa would have to face a direct mutiny. If his brother had been so adamant on flouting the rules, on ruining Mufasa's reputation, then he would not give up on his mission of usurpation so easily. The only worry was that Mufasa knew his brother well, and his brother was – for all intents and purposes – a coward. Scar was only willing to act if there was no doubt at all of success, and even then he often acted from behind the scenes to be sure there was someone on the forestage to take the blame if anything failed. He would never directly challenge his brother. If he did there would be a risk of failure, a risk that no one would back him up, and so he would rather lurk in the darkness and stab Mufasa in the back, when Mufasa could do nothing to defend himself.

"I know you wish to do me harm," Mufasa said with complete honesty, "but it is my wish that we fix this broken relationship between us. What am I do with you? If you would just tell me how I can make this better."

"I was first in line," Scar said darkly. "Your job would have been _my _job, then the little _hairball _was born and suddenly it's 'goodbye, Scar'. Can you make _that _better?"

"You can not speak about my son that way."

"Really? I forgot, I must bow and curtsey and the very _mention _of the brat."

"Enough, Scar!"

This was why Mufasa was concerned. Scar had never been so verbally _aggressive _before . . . sure, he had been scathing and sarcastic, quick to make little comments to make known his emotions, whilst never crossing a line, but to outright insult his own nephew, his own _blood_ -! Scar was too bitter, too jaded. He would end up hurting himself or hurting those around him, and Mufasa loved him too much – despite everything – to let that happen.

He also loved his son too much to let anyone – even his own brother – insult him. It was a line that could never be crossed. Simba was precious and innocent, a newborn babe with an innate curiosity and strong resemblance to his father, and it was Mufasa's hope and dream to teach his son everything that his father had once taught him, to let his child carry on the family line and the family business. He could already picture Simba's graduation, the smile on his face at his wedding to Nala, or the day Mufasa's first grandson was born and placed in his arms. Simba was destined for greatness. No one would disrespect that.

If Scar's recent descent into lethargy and rebellion was a result of his inheritance being taken from him, then so be it. There was nothing to be done. Scar would have to man up and accept his place in the company, a place that was not at the head, but the right hand, the hand that would support their future leader and raise him into greatness. Scar needed to accept that. He needed to accept it or – at the very least – learn to hold his tongue. Mufasa's patience was wearing thin.

Mufasa walked around the desk and took a firm hold of Scar's chair. He spun the chair around and forced his brother to face him, before stamping his foot firmly upon the edge of the seat and knocking his brother upright. It was clear that Scar was not impressed, but he knew better than to fight against this. He simply wasn't strong enough to fight Mufasa for supremacy or to walk away if Mufasa chose not to allow it, and so the younger man stayed put. It would have been an enjoyable moment for Mufasa, but the sudden look of shock and despair in Scar's eyes knocked all enjoyment from him. Scar's green eyes widened and his mouth fell into a sharp frown, his mouth pulling downwards from the corners . . . he tried to hide the expression after a split second with a nervous smile, but what had been seen could not be unseen. Mufasa had seen the fear . . . could Scar still not trust him?

"Temper, temper," Scar said with anxious expression and tense body.

"I'm sorry," Mufasa snapped tersely, removing his foot and folding his arms. "You _must _understand that my job is a large obligation, it isn't just a license to do what I want whenever I want. It is stressful, and whilst I had always hoped for my brother to be by my side – to support me – it seems you are intent on tripping me at every available opportunity."

"Can you truly blame me? Hatred isn't a spontaneous emotion."

"So you hate me? Fine. Hate me, but I shall never stop caring about you, Brother. It is my duty to love you and so I shall. Do you understand that word? Duty. It is something that those at the top of the food chain must bear in mind at all times, a word that by its very meaning controls us and defines us, we need to be master tacticians and treat every subject with respect. It is what my life entails. My position is daunting one, and I must uphold tradition and honour at all costs, all whilst accepting change and respecting every employee."

"You treat everyone with respect but _me_," Scar snarled. "You demand I attend events that I have no interest in, you foist your son upon me as if my job is nothing more than a glorified babysitter, and you are quick to violence with me when you barely raise your voice to any other. You talk about the pressures of ruling this little kingdom you created, but I have news for you, I am _not _one of your minions."

"No, you are my brother."

Mufasa sighed and reached down to take a hold of his brother's cheek.

The flush of fury was evident to him, because his brother did nothing to hide his disgust at such a display of intimacy, but Mufasa ignored it. He ignored it because hatred was a wasted emotion, he would not let his brother suffer when he knew – or at least ought to know – how loved and needed he truly was. He was an invaluable member of the family. It just hurt to see the fear in his eyes, or the skip of his breath. Did Scar truly fear him that much? The past was just that: past.

He drew in a deep breath and knelt before Scar. It always amazed him just how professional and radiant his younger brother looked, even when he tried so hard to stamp his own identity upon his attire at the cost of conformity, and even with that scar marring his cheek – marking him for what he was and what he had done – he still exuded confidence. His black hair was thick and full, although just a tad oilier than it perhaps ought, although sometimes Mufasa had the impression this was intentional, the same way that he had never sought surgery for the scar or therapy to correct his scathing sarcasm. It was as if the darker and less approachable he was that the less he would have to endure the presence of others, particular that of Mufasa. Mufasa's fingers traced the scar carefully and with kindness.

So much had changed since the day that Scar had obtained that mark, and not solely for Mufasa's promotion and inheritance that had led him to succeeding in a position that his brother had always craved. Mufasa had married Sarabi, and not long after that Simba had been born, since then Mufasa's very outlook on life had changed considerably, because now he was a father. His priorities had changed. It also meant that his relationship with Scar had changed also.

They had never been particularly close, especially after Scar's attempted sabotage and the subsequent attack that had very nearly blinded the man, but recently it seemed that Scar was more . . . _indifferent_. Mufasa had the feeling that he couldn't care less about Simba, almost as if the small babe were merely a talking doll, or perhaps just 'someone else's child', and whilst he was never outright rude or cruel to him he seemed to be very disinterested in his life and upbringing. There had even been times where he would blatantly ignore Simba, letting the boy cry or play without any real supervision, with the excuse that it wasn't _his _duty to watch the boy. It was almost like neglect, except Mufasa wondered if a man could neglect a child that was not his.

That in itself had been worrying to say the least, and no attempts so far had been successful in building a strong emotional bond between nephew and uncle, no matter how attached Simba seemed to be to his uncle. Scar was far worse with Mufasa though. He was prone to bitter comments, outright taunts, and would even be so rude as to walk away mid-conversation. Mufasa wasn't immune to anger, and – at times – he would roar in rage and pin Scar to a wall, demanding that if he wanted to challenge his brother then he was certainly up for it . . . but Scar would merely roll his eyes and walk away. He always walked away.

"You're being _awfully _familiar," Scar murmured.

Mufasa sighed deeply and allowed his hand to slide away. "Is that a problem?"

"Perhaps," Scar said despondently, "or perhaps not."

Mufasa smiled sadly. The younger man, still sitting, seemed conflicted. Scar's very pose was tense and his lips were pursed into a rather feminine display of frustration, and his green eyes seemed reluctant to make eye-contact with Mufasa, almost as if he were somehow afraid of what he would see were he to look. It was curious. Could it be that Scar felt affection after all? His brother always denied feeling any affection, but why else would he be so nervous about eye contact?

"It depends," Scar continued in a cold voice. "Do you want me asking for forgiveness on my knees or begging for it on my back?"

Mufasa stood slowly and clenched his hands hard at his side. So that was it, was it? Why did Scar always assume the very worst? It couldn't simply be that Mufasa felt close to his brother, that he wanted to touch him merely as a show of camaraderie and consideration, but it instead had to automatically be sexual, something perverted and far from pure, almost as if Mufasa could be nothing _but _physical. It hurt Mufasa that Scar could never see past those touches, that he couldn't see the love within Mufasa's heart that compelled him to make sure that his brother was safe and well. There was no reason for him to react in such a way.

There had been many times where Mufasa had let his brother's crimes go unpunished, where he had turned the other cheek at his impudence, and there had been many times where he had even jumped into dangerous circumstances to protect his sibling and keep him alive. Didn't those small acts of kindness make up for any past indiscretions? Surely the times he had refused to bring Scar to justice proved that he loved his brother beyond anything so shallow or petty?

"Cat got your tongue?" Scar said, looking up at Mufasa with a curious expression. "You look at me with such fury, it is enough to make one _almost _believe that you weren't sorely tempted by such a proposition."

"You know that I enjoy any chance to bond with my brother, but –"

"Ah, '_bonding_'! Is _that _what we are calling it now? Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle," Scar said with a mocking smile. "I have to say, as much as I _do _enjoy bonding with my dear old brother, I would much rather that we didn't have to do this whole song and dance _every _time. Can't we just get straight to business? _You_ may thrill in the hunt, but _I_ find the thrill in the kill."

"You seem to be relishing in this. You never used to. Why now?"

Scar's flinched slightly, before his lip curled and he stood slowly.

It was such a cautious movement, almost like he was slinking through the air itself, and the way his body twisted and bended was so graceful and gentle that it became almost a dance, almost as if his femininity could not escape him, even in moments like these where he clearly craved for dominance. Scar would manipulate any situation he could, even manipulate his family, but he could not manipulate his own actions . . . he couldn't hide his adorable pouts, his swaying hips as he walked, or – like now – his fluid gestures. It was amusing that a man so intent on such manipulations could fail in one key area, and Mufasa could only assume that Scar's narcissism led him to believe that there _were _no faults that needed correcting.

He seemed to be watching Mufasa, waiting for him to perhaps make the first move or say the first word, with his eyes dark and heavy, his eyes fixed on the pair that stood a foot above him. The way his lips pursed showed his frustration. Mufasa couldn't help but wonder why one question would invoke such anger, especially such a legitimate question as the one he posed. Even when he and his brother used to work together in their youth the younger man would never instigate such behaviours, but recently . . .

"Tell me: why now?"

Scar shrugged and walked around his brother. It was a circling movement that was a blatant attempt at control, meant to force Mufasa to turn around lest he show his back to a potential threat, but Mufasa would not allow his movements to be controlled by his brother in such a manner. He would keep his eyes straight ahead, and he would roll back his broad shoulders and keep his chin high. This was the way to deal with Scar, because – like any predator – he would pounce on any sign of weakness, and he would sink his claws into any 'prey'.

"Perhaps I have merely come to appreciate all that you have done for me," Scar said a little too cheerfully. He stood behind Mufasa and finally stayed still. "What reason would I have _not _to enjoy time spent alone with you? You are our fair leader, after all, you would _never _hurt your little brother, just the same as I would never hurt _you_."

"You are being sincere?"

"Aren't I always?"

Mufasa turned to face his brother and looked into his mask. It was hard – as always – to see where sincerity ended and the lie began, but it seemed that for once there was a hint of truth to Scar that was so often missed. He would be honest in that he could not tell which parts were true and which were not, but to give oneself so fully to another had to imply a sense of trust and thus of love, which gave Mufasa hope. If his brother would – despite everything – give himself to Mufasa, then that surely had to mean that there was hope for their relationship, hope that they could see past the bitter rivalries and childish 'hate' for something grander, something purer.

The older man smiled fondly and allowed himself to sit down into Scar's chair, essentially claiming the desk and space for his own as he watched his younger sibling almost adoringly. Scar always surprised him. He could be lazily toying with an employee, playing with them like one would a piece of unappetizing food, and then suddenly something like this would occur. He had been warned by others to watch his back, but it was hard to believe his brother would ever hurt him. They were _brothers_.

Scar smiled at the man in the chair, albeit his eyes narrowed into small slits as if fighting a darker instinct, perhaps his childish sense of possessiveness seeping through to burn inside him. Whatever the cause for that ire it seemed quickly assuaged, something for which Mufasa was quite grateful. It seemed like the younger man was actually quite enjoying the situation, or at least judging from his smile, and – as he leaned forward – his smile caused Mufasa to lick his lips in hunger. The hands of his brother held the armrests, his face was so close that their noses nearly touched, and he looked so hungry, so predatory . . .

"I wonder," Mufasa asked, "are you this assertive with Ziva?"

"Let's not talk about things we know _nothing_ about."

Mufasa drew in a quick intake of breath as Scar nipped playfully upon his ear. It was a rather gentle and playful nip, nothing like the dominating love-bites that had been aggressively placed along Scar's neck in their past encounters, but to feel that sharp pull and then the hot and lathing tongue against his skin . . . to feel that hot breath against his ear, the knee pressed on the edge of the chair by his own, and the way his brother then began to nuzzle against him . . . it was nice.

"Very well." Mufasa took a hold of his chin and stopped him. "Then we had better get to business, don't you think?"

He took control quickly, grabbing Scar by his waiflike hips and yanking him forward so that he was now forced to kneel upon the chair, and – when Scar inevitably went to sit – he pulled the man so that he was kept kneeling, with hands upon Mufasa's shoulders and his crotch directly before his brother's mouth. This was the part that Mufasa always enjoyed.

It was always infuriating that Scar would start these encounters completely limp, almost as if they were so mundane a chore that they could not stand to arouse excitement in him, but to force him to full erection from sheer skill and talent, to bring him that joy and ecstasy that he always denied himself, _that_ was what always brought Mufasa to the edge each and every time. It was almost a game now. He would start with the simple act of oral sex, using it to distract Scar from the slightly uncomfortable preparation, and then would come the main act itself, bringing them both such bliss that neither could hold back. It was a moment of sheer perfection and rarely did they deviate from routine.

Mufasa rubbed his nose and chin against the trouser-clad crotch of his brother. It felt so familiar, the deep and musky smell rather subtle and yet at the same time penetrating his senses, and as he began to mouth against it – sucking and licking at it through the flimsy material – he felt Scar's nails dig into his shoulder, almost clawing at him as if Mufasa served as his anchor. Mufasa smirked and began to rub leisurely at those thighs, relishing in the almost pained hiss of breath his brother made.

He slowly undid the zipper and buttons upon the offending material that kept them apart, then pulled them down along with the black boxers beneath, exposing the length of his brother to him as he hungrily devoured it with his eyes. It was hard to hold back as he wrapped his hands around his brother's behind, clenching and massaging those buttocks as he licked a long line from the black curls up to the very tip of the shaft. There was a very faint salty taste, but nothing too noticeable as of yet, but Mufasa sought to have his brother shooting into his throat as soon as possible, soon he would get the taste that he craved.

"Zira is a very lucky woman," he said with a lustful growl.

He didn't give Scar a chance to reply as he swallowed the length to its very base, letting it begin to grow in his mouth as he sucked passionately – lips over teeth so as not to catch – and began to lick lines up and down it, pausing occasionally to dip into the slit or to play under the head. Scar's breath caught as Mufasa's hand ran up and down the buttocks and backs of thighs, sometimes stopping to play with his balls and perineum, and Mufasa enjoyed every sound of response. He began to hum lightly, letting the vibrations take Scar by surprise . . .

Scar soon became erect. The head of his penis now striking the back of Mufasa's throat, forcing the older man to relax his jaw and swallow consistently to fight his gag-relax, which – luckily – was hard to trigger. The hardest part of such an act came from preventing the inevitable jaw ache, and – the bigger problem of – forcing himself to swallow when the inevitable moment came to do so. He always wanted to kiss after the climax of his partner, to share with them a moment of love and affection as his lover caught their breath, and with Sarabi she always enjoyed that, saying that it was nice to feel that the act of sex was more than just physical, that with a kiss it proved that it was romantic also. Scar hated such a thing, however. He would claim that it was disgusting and vulgar, that it made him feel sick to be forced to taste himself, and so Mufasa would refrain from doing so when the time came.

He wanted to make Scar climax, to feel the sense of pleasure that could only come from the act of lovemaking. The younger man would always claim that it came from a need for control, but it was more than that . . . they were brothers, and – at this moment – lovers, and Mufasa wanted Scar to enjoy every moment, to share in the pleasure. It was his duty. It would be unthinkable to leave him wanting, especially when Mufasa preached the consideration of everyone from the lowliest employee to the highest-ranking official. He owed it to Scar to please him.

Mufasa swallowed hard, soon tasting the beading pre-come at the tip of the penis within his mouth, relishing in the shudders that ran through Scar's body and the way he would moan and rock his hips. It was a rough and yet rhythmic movement, but the way he thrust so wildly almost made it seem as if he _sought _to make Mufasa choke, and no doubt soon his part would be complete . . .

"Let me prepare myself," Scar said breathlessly.

"Hmm?"

Mufasa hummed deeply, rising in pitch to indicate a questioning tone. He looked up to see a slight sheen of sweat appearing on Scar's skin, and he felt long fingers wrapping in his mane of hair, tangling in his locks and pulling hard as Scar licked his lips and looked down at his brother with a lustful gaze. He moaned loudly when Mufasa trailed a finger lightly over his winking hole. It was so unlike Scar to want to display himself like this, so out of character, and it made Mufasa's erection harden and ache to think of it.

"I would be honoured to give you a show," Scar murmured, reaching down to pull his brother's hands away. "You are my _brother_ after all, it is the least that I can do. Why don't you prepare yourself as you watch?"

The older man smirked around the length in his mouth and reached down to undo his own trousers, shifting just slightly so as to pull out his erection. The relief was instant. He moaned at the feeling of cold air touching his hot shaft, at the way his own rough hand felt against the soft skin, and as he dipped his finger into the slit he moved the pre-come about and for a second sucked a little too harshly on Scar. His teeth scraped just a little on Scar's foreskin and made him hiss loudly.

It seemed that Scar had chosen that moment to begin fingering himself. His rocking was more inconsistent, and Mufasa could see the movement of Scar's arm behind his back as he began to play with himself. Mufasa could tell when an extra finger was inserted from the way Scar pushed himself to the hilt into his brother's mouth, a low growl escaping his throat, and Mufasa could picture the way that those inner walls would be clamping down around that digit. The taste in his mouth was growing stronger and Mufasa couldn't help but speed up his own pace upon his length, pumping almost furiously as he sucked and licked upon that weeping length, and soon he found himself forced to swallow. Scar must have struck his prostate because he was coming hard inside Mufasa's throat.

Scar was always so silent when he reached his orgasm. He currently bit his lip hard and threw back his head, the hand not within his body clenched hard through Mufasa's shirt and scratched hard on his shoulders. He thrust forward so hard that Mufasa could only swallow or choke. The taste was so bitter, so salty and waxy, but at the same time he relished in it, _craved _it, because it showed how much Scar wanted this – _needed _this – and he had been the one to do it. He had been the one to show Scar the ecstasy that only he could bring.

"If we were home," Scar said breathlessly, "I am sure this would be the moment to say 'take me to bed', would it not? As it is I will settle for 'let's get this over with', because – unlike you – I have work to do. I don't have minions to pass the buck to."

Mufasa ignored the blatant insult in his haze of passion. He took a hold of Scar's hips and pulled him back just enough so that the wet length slid from his mouth, a trail of come and saliva connecting the head of the shaft to the lips of the older man. He licked his lips and looked up at Scar's flushed cheeks and heavy breath, wondering how long it would be this time for him to become erect again, but no doubt he would become erect soon when the main act began.

Scar pulled his fingers away from his – what would hopefully be now _loose _– hole. He shuffled around awkwardly in the chair so that he could successfully wrench one trouser leg and boot from his body, thus freeing himself to accurately position himself directly over Mufasa's erection. The whole time Mufasa watched with aching arousal, his shaft feeling hot as he felt a deep throbbing sensation in anticipation of the main event, and he could not help but maintain eye contact with Scar – even if the younger man refused to look him in the eye – because Scar made the most beautiful expressions, each one so vivid and so real and so _natural_. It was as if he were coming to life. It was the only time he let his true emotions come to the forefront.

It was only a matter of seconds before Scar's long fingers wrapped around his length, and then – in an agonisingly slow movement – he slid down to the very base, letting his hot inner walls clamp around Mufasa with a strength that a virgin would envy. Scar's hand soon moved away to hold fast to Mufasa's shoulders. It seemed that – like Mufasa – he needed to catch his breath. His head rested upon his older brother's shoulders, his breathing heavy and erratic, and his heartbeat pounding loudly against his chest so that Mufasa could hear each and every beat.

"Are you ready, Scar?"

"Does it matter?"

Scar purposely clenched his muscles so that Mufasa bucked upwards, a loud groan escaping his lips as he wrapped his arms around his younger sibling and held him as close as possible. It felt so good! He could feel Scar so intimately, they were joined as one; bonded, connected, _together . . . _it was all so perfect and he wanted more, he wanted to hear Scar make those delicious noises that only he could make, and he wanted him to rise again to the occasion and come so hard that he would be in no doubt of Mufasa's abilities.

Mufasa growled possessively as Scar began to slowly work his body up and down, building a steady and firm rhythm. The way he buried his face into Mufasa's neck . . . it was so intimate, so reassuring, but a colder part of the older man wondered if he merely did it to stop looking into the eyes of the elder, as if he sought to think about someone – anyone – else. He would have to pound such thoughts out of Scar's head. He would leave the man in no doubt as to who was using him.

"Of – of course it matters," Mufasa gasped.

"You're close," Scar said, as if that were an adequate reply.

"It matters . . ."

It was true: he was close. He couldn't help but quicken his pace, relishing in the feel of the hot flesh of his brother who bounced upon him, the two moving in an irregular – yet so perfect – rhythm. His hands explored Scar hungrily, and as he reached down to clench upon those well-formed buttocks he bit hard upon his brother's neck, moaning loudly as the smell of sex began to pervade the air. Scar would purposely clench around him, flexing his muscles over and over, teasing Mufasa almost painfully as Mufasa felt his pinnacle of pleasure rising, growing . . . his body felt hot. He was breathless. His heart resounded hard in his ears, the sound of his pulse overwhelming all other sounds, and soon it was too much to bear.

Mufasa roared aloud as he raked his nails down Scar's sides. There was nothing but a sharp hiss from Scar to indicate that it was over for his partner, but for Mufasa the end never really seemed to come . . . it was just so good! He could feel wave after wave coarse through his body, spurt after spurt leaving his body. Scar would complain later. He always complained about the 'little messes', but Mufasa couldn't bring himself to care, not when they had both just enjoyed such a pure and wonderful moment.

"It's time I got back to my _other _work," Scar said with a sigh.

The dark-haired man awkwardly extracted himself from the chair, causing Mufasa's softening length to slide out with a rather uncomfortable sensation. Mufasa shifted in the chair and reached out on the desk for a tissue to wipe himself down, watching intently with interest as Scar likewise did the same . . . there was just something about Scar that commanded attention, that demanded one observe him and watch him, and Mufasa had to admire that. In the workplace he could be a predator, but in the bedroom he was nothing more than handsome prey. Mufasa would watch him, he would memorise his body and his movements, and – even as he redressed and glared at his brother – Mufasa could do nothing but smile.

"Just so long as you remember your duty," Mufasa said in half-seriousness.

"My duty? My duty is to the 'king', of course."

"Of course," Mufasa said, laughing.

Scar glared at him as he continued to laugh. It was a deep and hearty sound, one that showed compassion and amusement, but the sound was tinged with a sense of pride – of arrogance – as if he truly believed that the duty was owed towards him first and foremost, and wasn't it? He was the head of the company and life was but a circle. If he were to provide for Scar and to protect him, along with the employees of their company, then he was owed something in return, wasn't he?

It seemed that Scar didn't quite see things the same way, however, or at least not judging from his murderous gaze. The younger man always loathed the idea of being beneath another – or at least professionally – but he just didn't seem to understand that it was necessary, that he was the foundation upon which Mufasa stood, and just because he wasn't company president did not mean he wasn't a vital part of the company. Mufasa would endure those glares, because he knew that beyond those dark stares was the heart of a loyal brother, one who would never hurt him or betray him – no matter how much he may have done so in the past – because now there was more to their relationship, now there was love.

Mufasa smiled and stood slowly, admiring the way that Scar slinked about the office collecting papers with a cool detachment, his attire so perfect that one would hardly have guessed of the activities that had occurred just moments before. How was it that Scar could act so indifferent lately? He used to be so emotional after intercourse, but now he went about his chores as if sex itself was just another chore on the list. What had changed? Mufasa wondered if he had been blinded by brotherly love.

"Cover yourself, Mufasa. You look most undignified."

The older man looked down at his exposed genitalia and laughed heartily. It was hard to be embarrassed when it felt so natural to simply be himself around his brother, because who else – other than Simba – could he just be himself with? There was no one else to share that familial affection, the brotherly teasing, or general relaxed feeling with . . . it was nice to let go, away from the pressures of ruling a company. They may have argued – even fought – but at least they were brothers.

Scar looked at Mufasa with a hard and curious expression, before breaking into a soft smile at the sight of his elder brother fumbling with his trousers and struggling to pull them back on correctly. It looked so childish, like a child trying to dress for the first time . . . Mufasa imagined it must have been impossible to take serious.

"Long live the king, indeed . . ."


End file.
